Along the way

I skim the faded skin
covered by lines of ink.
I hear whispers and rustles
escaping the hand passing over.
Lost is the exhaling smell
at the wind of my thoughts.
Because you are paper,
you are book,
you are story.

Sfioro la pelle ingiallita
solcata da rughe d’inchiostro.
Odo sussurri e fruscii
fuggire la mano che passa.
Perso è l’odore ch’emani
al vento dei miei pensieri.
Perché tu sei carta,
sei libro,
sei storia.

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